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At 10,911 meters beneath the Pacific veil,
where no submarine dares dream,
I descended into the throat of Earth—
into the trench men call Mariana,
but spirits call Theotokos.

There, the water was not water—
it was glass that hummed.
The ocean floor rose like a palace,
built of crystal bones and music stones—
a cathedral of sound and secrets.

They called it the House of Fire Music.

Inside, stood the immortalized—
Beyoncé, her aura a flicker of gold.
Jay-Z, carved from thunder and code.
Janet Jackson, wrapped in the rhythm of moons.
Dolly Parton, humming in divine frequencies.
Elvis shimmered at the corner, whispering hymns
of forgotten chords.

And then, the Beings arrived—
not gods, not angels—
but the composers behind the composers.
They stood clad in scarlet and amethyst,
eyes like suns behind veils of silk.

“We are the architects of your sound,” they said.
“Every chart hit, every sold-out stage,
begins not in your world, but here.”

A ritual began.
Each musician was summoned
to offer a letter of the alphabet.
Beyoncé stepped forward. Her voice—clear, defiant:
“I give you the letter S.”

The beings replied:
“Then we give you Single Ladies.
Take it. Sing it. The world will move.”
And so it was.

Kanye West knelt, offering P.
They gave him Power.
Lady Gaga whispered B,
and was handed Born This Way.
Freddie Mercury had once been here—
and took Bohemian Rhapsody
from their marble hands.

No song is random.
No beat is blind.
Everything—
from release dates to Grammy speeches—
is scripted by ancient rhythm codes
within the citadel of Theotokos.

They are taught the law of vibration,
the diet of frequency:
“No meat that bleeds.
No sex before sound.
No fame without silence.”
Their lives are not theirs.
Their voices are borrowed.

This world we know—
the charts, the scandals, the glam—
is just a shadow on the surface.
The music industry?
A temple built on crystal lies.

And when I rose back to the surface,
gasping, reborn—
I heard the radio play a new track,
and I knew—

It came from beneath.
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